Transformers High: A Man Named Peace
by TheWeepingWillow555
Summary: Mr. Diamond, the Principle of Pissyard High, has very little to do. But with the arrival of a strange young man named Orion Pax as a substitute teacher for the History section B, it seems there may be an excessive workload in Mr. Diamond's future. For Nancy Hamish, the change is more than fortunate. (Rated M. OptimusxOCxMegatron, SunstreakerxOCxSideswipe.) Better summary inside.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note: Hello everyone! This is a story I've had in my head for a while now, and I thought I'd post the first chapter to see if anyone's interested in reading it. **

Summary: (Set _loosely_ in the bayverse.) Mr. Diamond, the Principle of Pissyard High, has very little to do. Students are regularly funneled through his office, but their offenses are minor things like exploding class seats and creating a tactically ingenious fortress out of cafeteria tables in response to a food fight. With the arrival of a strange young man named Orion Pax, however, as a substitute teacher for the History section B, it seems there may be an excessive workload in Mr. Diamond's future. (OptimusxOCxMegatron, SideswipexOCxSunstreaker, and possibly others. Rated M for language and inappropriate content.)

Transformers High

Chapter one: A Man Named Peace

Pissyard High was named after a historical figure. That was the entirety of what most people knew on the subject. The time of life, place of birth, and gender of this person was unknown, but no one in the Lappington community was especially bothered by this.

Lappington was the town in which Pissyard reared like a sprout of poison ivy amid soft orchids. It had a population of three thousand and twenty-three, since the birth of Mrs. Abbot's little girl, April, on the eve of the thirteenth of April (to everyone's less than great surprise). Within the city's tranquil confines sat white houses, brown houses, pale blue houses, yellow houses, and one red house on the corner of fifth and Willow road. A few shops were sprinkled on Commercial street; a Walmart, a C.V.S, and an AT&amp;T store being the most prominent of the lot. Trees grew along dark grey lanes, casting the clean asphalt into pleasant shade with their web-like weave of branches and emerald leaves.

It was a simple neighborhood; peaceful and content to flourish beneath the warm California sun.

The addition of Pissyard High to this lovely neighborhood painting all but made the paint run in sticky streaks, effectively ruining the beauty of the piece.

Physically, the highschool was pleasant; a bit modern, with sandy coloring and clean white blocks in straight lines here and there amid the buildings. Brown roofs baked in the afternoon glare, and yellowish lawns spread out beneath the circular arrangement of academic buildings. There was an observatory, a gym, a building devoted entirely to computer mastery and tech labs, and several other subjects of learning that very few attending adolescents found at all interesting, but that had their own buildings for the sake of propriety. At the center of the campus was the admissions building, in which the chapel, cafeteria, and staff offices were located. This building was the tallest, excluding the observatory, and had a total of five floors. No student knew the purpose behind every floor, but it was a campus-wide fact that the Principle's office changed location every semester for 'security reasons', and so it was assumed that the different floors were simply rabbit holes into which other known departments might likewise retreat.

Like an apple, glossy red on the outside, brown and rotten within, Pissyard High was deceiving in appearance. On the outside, nothing was out of place; those who made the withered grounds their home were careful to portray a pleasant exterior and acceptable manners to any inhabitants of Lappington they might run across. But the school's eccentricity was well known and proudly displayed within its walls, in the form of maniacal Science professors and several muscular men in the place of normal, demure cafeteria ladies.

Pissyard's strangeness was portrayed through other 'conduits', as well. Food fighting was not allowed, but one might use his fork to near-lethal effectiveness without fear of repercussions. Forks, after all, were eating utensils, not weapons, so naturally no case of assault could be made - even if the security guards were inclined to make one. Students were expected to use common sense in everything. The small matter of the majority of the attendees being _adolescents_ had apparently been overlooked in the school's board meetings, because this expectation was reinstated (and rarely met) every month.

In the student body itself, there was strife. When a child from Lappington entered into his freshmen year and began attending Pissyard, he retained the cherubic, obedient character his parents enforced upon him for approximately four days, by the staff's estimate. What emerged from this youthful chrysalis of sugary perfection after the four day period had elapsed was varied. The universal truth that held for all cases was that the newly formed adolescent had a new sense of destiny. Some found they were secretly assassins, after the fashion of Jason Bourne. Others discovered their calling to be less villainous in nature; they were newest scientific prodigy, for instance, or a History guru bent upon discovering the exact location of the elusive Eden of the Bible. Then there were the more common cases, those who made up the citizenry of Pissyard High; cheerleaders whose defining characteristic took form as lust or "bitchiness" (or both); teacher's pets whose only goal in life was to glean the respect of their tutor in any way possible; and countless other cliches.

The school staff were hardly any less diverse, only less boisterous in their exhibition of it.

Mrs. Jawbrawn, the librarian, was not married. The students called her "Mrs." because her formidable aura demanded they refrain from calling her miss. She wasn't old enough to be a ma'am, nor young enough to be referred to by any name other than her last. Mrs. Lawbrawn had the impressive distinction of being the only human being on Pissyard campus that truly held the entire student body in perpetual fear. The library was her domain, and she never left it. There was no restroom to be seen, nor was she seen to be eating at any point of any day, but there was no doubt that she continued to live, thrive, and terrify.

Books were never returned late at Pissyard High.

Another example of secret eccentricity was Mr. Call. Mr. Call was cheerful, and without a doubt was the most popular teacher on or off campus. He had been called handsome, but it had been a lie; Mr. Calden was easily forgettable in appearance save for the colorful bow ties he wore ceaselessly (day _and_ night, it was rumored). He taught computer operations, which was doubtlessly fifty percent of the reason for his popularity. As far from strict as he was from outwardly critical, his classes were pleasant jaunts into the world of computerized play. Very few students felt the need to mock or scorn him, but those that did swiftly learned that, amenable and childish as he was, he was not a man to be trifled with, either. Mr. Call was brutal in the few detentions he did hand out, and his vengeance for wrongs perceived against him was legendary. He was cheerful, and possibly the closest in terms of friendly relationships with the students, but there was a reason his schoolyard designation was The Mob Boss. He had…_connections_.

Last of the most striking cases in the Pissyard staff roster, Mr. Alabaster was unique. From his perpetually white suits and pearly dancing shoes to his shock of jet black hair, the youthful French professor caused cheeks to blush red on first sight, and limpid eyes to glisten with shy adoration. This did not last long. He was the most cruel, harsh, cold, and callous professor any teen had ever had the misfortune of encountering on Pissyard campus, and, as far as anyone knew, quite enjoyed this distinction. Very little was known about him aside from these few facts, but the students of Pissyard and Mr. Alabaster himself seemed to prefer it that way.

These examples were far from the most eccentric of the Pissyard staff, but they were the most influential. Others simply had little to no interest in their students' lives whatsoever, or were too fascinated by the works they were required to teach to bother learning anything about those they taught them to.

As leader in chief and dictator of Pissyard High, Principle Diamond held a position that was, as far as the Pissyard hierarchy was concerned, undefinable. He was like the puppeteer holding the strings to a massive play, who suddenly finds he has lost his interest in the occupation. Students were often channeled through his office, but their punishments were token; hardly carrying any weight or meaning to them. He left the campus infrequently, choosing to spend most of his time in the Principle's Lodgings on school grounds. At the beginning of each year he recited a speech he had created during his first term of office. It was never altered, and some swore his tone replicated the original presentation pitch for pitch on every word. This was the extent of his contact with his students. The monthly meetings he was required to hold by law* rarely heard two words from his end of the rounded table, so his staff knew little more of him than the students did.

This was the way of Pissyard, until the day Mr. Orion Pax, from Tranquility, Nevada, agreed to substitute for Mrs. Peels.

* * *

It was morning, but the pavement still sizzled with heat. The sun scorched the yellow grass; even the football field's artificial turf was beginning to dry out. Flies buzzed frantically against the glass windows of Pissyard's History building, desperate to reach the cool air within. It was October third, and Mrs. Peels was ill.

Mrs. Peels was a minor history professor in the triad of history professors that prowled the History building and library. The other two were men: the Russian brothers Tutenashta and Sasha Veilavich. Sasha was the grand historian, and the other two acted as his second and third in command (Mrs. Peels ranking third, of course, since blood is always thicker than water). Mrs. Peels was a quiet woman with a passion for Napolean the Great and chocolate. Hardly a candidate for cancer, but cancer _had_ found her.

She had departed too quickly for a proper Pissyard farewell, in an wailing ambulance, not twenty-four hours in the past.

It was said that the man coming to take her place had known Mrs. Peels at some point in her life before Pissyard had laid its claws on her. The rumor was that he was her estranged nephew or long lost son.

Nancy Hamish didn't believe the gossip, but she didn't have an alternate opinion.

Nancy sighed, flicking a shredded bit of paper off of her desk, trying to ignore the steadily growing boredom that was eating away at her brain - a brain already sensitive from far too much studying and far too little coffee. The air stank of cleaning supplies and chocolate, as it had since Mrs. Peels had taught her first class at Pissyard. The fans overhead whirred and thrummed through relatively still air, their bulbs casting a kind of yellowed light over the classroom; the kind that reminded Nancy of home. Behind her, Stanley Belton snickered to his fellow football jocks; she could hear them muttering something about beer and eight o'clock. Nancy grimaced down at the smooth, polished wood of her desktop, barely acknowledging the notebooks and pencils that littered its gleaming surface. The clock ticked loudly overhead from its regal perch on the wall above the teacher's desk, and chimed the ninth hour. "Napolean the Great", section B, was supposed to start on that chime.

The other students in the classroom chatted and bickered noisily; Oliver Hallpoint slouched sullenly in his chair, one seat ahead of Nancy, dark brown fingers playing with a ruler. Ahead of him, Jade Donnalt's thunderous laugh rang out as her companion, Ellen Jadder, told a particularly crude joke.

Suddenly, with a clear _click_, the door opened, and everyone who didn't fall instantly into silence gasped.

Nancy glanced up, startled by the breathy wheezes, and blinked. Whatever she had expected the substitute teacher to look like, it hadn't been this.

He was quite tall, probably over six feet. A simple pair of jeans and a red dress shirt clothed a frame that was far too sculpted and muscular to be disgraced with such simple clothes. White sneakers encased his feet. The man's pale face was almost too perfect; only the faintest of frown lines creased his thin lips, and a gentle cleft cut down to his clean, angular chin. But his stunning face might have been overlooked as normal. Some men were simply gorgeous; it wasn't _their_ fault. What made the substitute one of the strangest men ever to walk off of a fashion magazine, in Nancy's opinion, was the last two of his physical attributes.

Blazing blue eyes the color of water dumped into deep space watched them all with a gentle, almost hesitant expression. Hair the color of Nancy's blue nail polish fell in straight, thick layers to his eyebrows and ears; she couldn't see if the almost Aisian hair style incorporated a braid in the back, but Nancy was tempted to ask him to turn around so she could see, just for the fun of it.

Mr. Pax was instantly entered into the popularity contest of Pissyard High with several points in his favor from the feminine percentage of the classroom, and a few from the masculine as well. It was very clear he had no idea why they were staring, too, which increased his humility advantage (most students found humble teachers more tolerable and thereby more popular than arrogant ones) by four points.

"Hello," He began, and several gaspers repeated their breathy exclamations. "I am here to substitute for Mrs. Peels."

Nancy hadn't heard a voice she could so easily describe before. It was chocolate, melted and swirled with butter. It was thick and creamy and clear, each deeply spoken word carefully licked into existence out of soft, slightly mumbling lips. Nancy blinked again, and dropped her eyes to her desk, trying not to smirk to herself. The poor man was going to be mobbed.

"_Damn_…" Jade Donnalt breathed into the silence. Mr. Pax heard, it seemed, but did not comment.

Nancy heard him approach the teacher's desk, placing a few books (had he brought books? she hadn't noticed) onto its surface before addressing them once more.

"I have a few rules you will all have to follow, but do not worry," His words took on a smirk. "I will not destroy the possibility of fun." That…might have been funny. If he hadn't said it the way he did. Nancy grimaced; Mr. Pax's popularity scores would be docked slightly for excessive dictation and thereby terrible humor.

Someone must have raised their hand, otherwise the substitute's next words would have made absolutely no sense.

"Yes, in the back?"

"Yeah," Stanley Belton. Shit. "I was wondering if you're a pedophile."

There was a pause during which Nancy's eyes narrowed and glared holes into her notebook. Pissyard didn't have a good reputation as it was. Jerks like Stanley Belton made it a thousand times worse.

"I am not. Let us begin with-"

"Would you consider being one? There are a lot of cute butts around, not all of 'em girls'."

Mr. Pax set something down; Nancy could hear it thunk gently against the desk. "What is your de- name?" He corrected. Nancy blinked, wondering what he had been about to say.

"Stanley Belton. Want my number?" Jade Donnalt's chair skidded against the floor as she shifted sharply, and Nancy heard the girl snicker.

"Only if the phone belongs to your parents. I will be having a word with them after dismissal." Mr. Pax raised his voice, speaking to the entire class. Nancy kept her gaze firmly locked on the doodles scribbled on her notebook, but she listened. "Since I have not laid out the rules for this class period, Mr. Belton's remarks will be allowed to stand. After this moment, any other such comments will be properly dealt with. Am I understood?" The words were calm, but firm. The class had seen better bluffing from Mr. Call's golden retriever.

The affirmatives from the students had an air of snideness to them. Nancy simply nodded, thinking up ways to get back at Stanley that wouldn't incriminate her later. He knew she hated it when he pulled these sorts of stunts…Asshole.

"There will be no cursing, vulgarity, or use of inappropriate language of any kind in this class." Many students, including Nancy, shifted guiltily. "There will be no commentary of any kind from any student unless I so indicate, and no student is to speak without raising his or her hand. Class projects, assignments, and other activities will be explained in detail by myself and no other at the time they are assigned. Any questions a student may have that do not relate directly to the subject matter will be addressed to myself after class is dismissed, or during my office hours by appointment. Any other rules will be made at another time, as we are already late. I apologize for this."

The class was silent, until Jade called out: "It's alright, honey."

Several students snickered, and Mr. Pax joined them with a base chuckle that was over as quickly as it had started. "In the future, Ms. Donnalt, please raise your hand. Class, Turn to page fifty-four."

Nancy fumbled with the pages of her book, smiling to herself. Something told her this semester would be…interesting.

* * *

**Author's Note: Well, there we are. Just in warning, this story will be more relaxed that my other one, and far less involved. It's just something fun to do when I can't force myself to write on "Light of My World". That said, please don't expect much plot, or really much of anything beyond cute romance, dry humor, and the occasional serious conversation or situation. As I mentioned in the summary, this story will be an OptimusxOCxMegatron fic, and SunstreakerxOCxSideswipe as well. Any other romances are unplanned but welcome, if I find something is working out that I didn't exactly plan for.**

**Please review and let me know how you like it! If no one's interested, I'll be removing it from my profile.**

**Thanks!**

**~TheWeepingWillow555**


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: Hello everyone! Sorry this took so long - I've been unusually busy, of late.

Thank you so much to those who favorited, reviewed, and followed this story from last time! Without your support, I probably wouldn't have posted anything else.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything but the plot and OCs.

Enjoy!

Transformers High

Chapter Two:

Home Again

It was five o'clock. Classes were over, and the students were going home.

The long yellow buses rolled slowly down the flat pavement of Pissyard's drive, groaning beneath the combined weight of nearly twenty students per bus. Their dirty tires cycled slowly, pressing cruelly against the compact asphalt, and their drivers stared tiredly out of dusty windows.

Nancy sat in the third bus, and ignored the sounds of chaos her classmates' emitted - or rather, the eighty percent that were not like her. Those who were like Nancy stared in much the same manner as she did at their fellow adolescents, with an expression of confusion, as though wondering how such immature beasts could have reached the same place in life they had.

Oliver Hallpoint was one of them. The dark-skinned boy sat next to Nancy, as was his custom, pale eyes devoid of warmth, watching Jade Donnalt as she boomed a loud, boisterous laugh. Oliver was Nancy's closest friend. He was in her year, and shared most of her classes. Unlike Nancy, Oliver had a sharper wit than Voltaire, and an extensive vocabulary to match. He wasn't overly educated, having lived most of his grade-school years as a vagrant boy intent on defying the peaceful, mannerly ways of Lappington, and entirely devoted to the idea of become a gangster rapper. This hadn't proven helpful to his schooling. He'd grown out of that dream (mostly), and had informed Nancy that his new intention was to become a DJ in Chicago.

Oliver was strange, mostly secretive, and quiet, meaning that he and Nancy got on splendidly. Unfortunately, Oliver did not get along with most other people, including the teachers, which meant that she had few other friends at all.

What she had instead was a brother.

Solomon Hamish sat five seats ahead of Nancy with two of his fellow seniors. If Oliver was quiet, Solomon was silent. He rarely ever spoke, preferring to watch, or, in a case where his interaction was necessary, let his actions speak for him. He was tall and good-looking, with pale, pointed features and large, expressive black eyes. His hair was dark and thick, falling about his ears and into his eyes in smooth, straight curtains. Nancy looked nothing like him.

When the bus stopped at their house, Nancy got up first. She bid Oliver goodbye, and rolled her eyes at the smirk he gave in response. Most likely, the boy would be visiting Solomon later in the evening - or perhaps it would be early in the morning. Solomon was the only other person Oliver seemed to tolerate with any grace, and visa versa. The two were almost closer than Nancy and Oliver themselves were, since boys could talk about things to one another that a boy and a girl would never attempt to discuss. Sometimes the two genders were just too different for some topics to be interesting to both.

Nancy left the bus, feeling Solomon's presence just behind her, and stepped onto the sidewalk across the street from their home. The Hamish's house was hidden from their view until the bus drew away with a hiss of hydraulics, it's dirty yellow bulk retreating into the dusky distance.

The Hamish family lived on Cotton Rd and 3rd, in about the center of the row of houses that lay along this particular stretch. The house was - for Lappington - a rather large two story building, its siding a soft yellow that brought to mind buttercups and daisies. The steps that led up to the porch were painted a clean white, and the lawn was well kept, decorated with trimmed trees. A large, rowan door graced the pearly porch with a splash of reddish color, a prominent glass window in its center giving the entrance a fine, elegant air. Graceful weeping willows tickled the trimmed glass of the lawn and draped their tendrils over the clean roof, framing the entire picture with their swooping bodies.

Nancy sighed, noting once again, with embarrassment, that the houses on either side and beyond her own looked simple and drab in comparison. The Hamish family was wealthy, and she was lucky to be a member of it. Solomon had been an only child until, as a seven-year-old boy intent to do whatever he shouldn't and avoid everything else, he had been introduced to a five-year-old Nancy as his adopted sister. The friendship between the reticent Solomon and the excitable Nancy had been instantaneous.

Even as he moved past her across the street, the taller boy threw a smirk backward over his shoulder; a silent "coming?" echoing between them.

Nancy gave him a weak smile in return, and followed.

* * *

"So, Nancy, how was school?" Her mother's voice was deceptively pleasant; like a bird of prey masquerading as a peacock. A peacock was an accurate description of Mrs. Hamish; she was tall, like Solomon, and shared her son's attractive delicacy in her features. Her eyes were the thing that most distinguished her from Solomon; she had heavy, perpetually half-closed lids that fell over a dreamy brown gaze. Claudia Hamish's lashes were equally heavy; she often complained that mascara all but rendered her blind. Elegancy was in her every movement, and in her clothes as well. Tonight, she wore a slimming red dress that contrasted perfectly with her glossy black locks. Her lips were very red, and she wore pearls around her pale white throat and wrist. Nancy wondered if her adopted parents were hosting anyone that evening; her mother was rarely painted in such heavy make-up.

"It was alright." Nancy answered plainly, looking down at her rumpled school clothes and appreciating their comfort. She didn't particularly like the hassle of grooming herself, and even less enjoyed looking like an expensive ornament when she was done. _Solomon_ was more attentive to his appearance than she was, and had often stopped dead in the middle of teaching her how to use lotion effectively with a strange, almost queasy look on his face; one that plainly portrayed his opinion of his own skills. Apparently, it was a guilty pleasure - one that was most often instinctive rather than intentional.

"Anything out of the ordinary?" Asked her father from the end of their gleaming table, spearing a bit of roasted pork with his fork. Mr. Hamish was more ordinary in his appearance, but no less similar to a peacock than his wife. He wore suits - mostly silk ones - everywhere but in bed. His top two buttons were always fashionably undone, showing a bit of the pale skin beneath. Nancy thought it looked somewhat silly, but she wasn't about to put forward her opinions on fashion to the man who had invented several different fads as a hobby. The suits themselves were quite stylish, and fit Mr. Hamish' lithe frame well, as far as she could tell. The one he wore currently was blindingly white, and the shirt beneath was a smokey grey. The coloring looked odd with his salt-and-pepper hair and goatee, but again, Nancy wasn't about to say anything on the subject.

His black eyes speared her as his fork had speared the bit of pork, and Nancy realized she hadn't replied.

"Well, we got a substitute teacher for Mrs. Peels." She offered, smirking slightly as she remembered Mr. Pax. She turned quickly back to her food, hoping no one noticed. Unfortunately, her mother's dreamy eyes were quite sharp.

"Judging by your expression," The woman began, the hint of a smile on her scarlet mouth. "It must have been interesting."

Solomon saved Nancy from the possible danger of having to describe the event, and she threw him a grateful glance. His lip quirked in response. "I think the main interest was more along the lines of who was going to steal a kiss first." Her brother commented blithely, not a flicker of scorn or humor betraying his poker face. "The ladies in his classes were quite taken with him."

"Oh?" James Hamish's eyes crinkled with a sudden grin. "Is that so? Poor man."

"I would agree, but I was too busy ogling him myself."

"Solomon!" Their mother laughed, blushing and waving her napkin at her son.

Solomon's thin lips slitted into a grin, and a twinkle entered his black gaze. Nancy smiled at the sight, and ate a spoonful of carrot soup. It was nice to see Solomon smiling.

"I was being entirely serious." Solomon continued, his grin widening as Mrs. Hamish continued to laugh, pressing a napkin to her mouth to muffle the sound - as all ladies should. "He's quite the looker."

"And what about that Dawkins girl you fancied not so long ago?" Mr. Hamish cut in with a bark of laughter.

Solomon shrugged. "Too feminine." He replied, and there was a definite hitch in his words, as though he was either close to chuckling out loud or gagging outright. Solomon was many things, but gay was not one of them by any stretch of the imagination.

Nancy removed her own dishes with a wide grin, walking over the tiled dining room floor. She entered the kitchen and placed her plate and utensils on the marble counter. Soft lights lit the wash area and stove, shimmering gently over their surfaces. The conversation had grown quieter in the other room, and she did not return to discover what they were discussing. Instead, Nancy bounded up carpeted stairs, half-dancing her way to the white door that closed her room off from the upstairs hallway. Paintings of green glades and laughing partygoers watched her as she turned the brass knob, pushing the door silently open and entering the precious solitude of her room.

Nancy was not much of an artist, nor did she care much for art in general. She liked the subtlety of a room's color and overall comfort; the method of making an area completely _hers _without need of decoration. Her room, as a result, was not very pretty, but it was _very much_ in keeping with Nancy's likes and dislikes.

There were three soft beanbags piled in the middle of her carpeted floor, their vibrant colors clashing with the soft, creamy texture beneath. Her bed was a mess of clothes and papers; pillows piled at one end indicated where her head was meant to lie, but it was a rare occasion when Nancy actually obeyed the implied rule. She preferred to sprawl in whatever position her body deemed most comfortable, and she liked to do so with as much cushioning as possible. In short, she wore as many clothes as she could to bed, all thick and woolen, cocooning her with blissful warmth.

But now wasn't the time to sleep. She had homework that required her attention.

Before dinner, Nancy had brought her backpack up into her room. It rested in a lopsided heap on her desk, which was more stylish and modern than anything else in her room. there was even a mirror set above it, held up by two strong arms of wood; the same finished wood that comprised the rest of the desk. She could see herself reflected in the dirt-speckled glass: a young teenage girl with golden-brown hair cascading in thick curls over her shoulders and down her back. A few locks curled alongside her face and over her forehead, framing dull brown eyes and a plump, round mouth. Her nose was pointed, and her eyes were unusually wide and round. It gave her the appearance of looking like she was constantly in shock, mouth puckered in an "O" of surprise. Nancy disliked looking clueless.

She turned away with a scowl, and unzipped her backpack. On the walls around her, posters depicting energetic scenes from random movies stared mournfully down at her. She hadn't bought or placed them there, and she'd barely noticed that Solomon had. For some reason, her brother had decided Nancy needed better decoration, but, not being much of a movie fanatic himself, hadn't quite known which ones she would like.

He should have known Buffy the Vampire Slayer was definitely a 'No'.

But Nancy care much about the posters - in fact, she rarely acknowledged their existence. So they stayed.

As she dug out her history homework, grimacing slightly at the signed 'Mr. Pax' at the bottom (honestly, why had he even _signed_ it?), she heard Solomon's door across the hall open and close, signaling her brother's own start on homework.

Voices still sounded through the floor, and Nancy's suspicions about their parents entertaining someone that evening were confirmed. She didn't know who it was, but some stranger was definitely down there, his unfamiliar tones reaching her ears through the carpet.

Nancy sighed, and dragged her schoolwork to her bed. Stranger or no, her homework wasn't about to do itself.

* * *

Author's Note: Well, there's the second chapter. A bit shorter than last time, but hopefully as enjoyable. (So, who do you think the stranger downstairs is?) Please review! ^^ Also, there's a poll on my profile for this story. Please vote for it? It will affect the progression of the story. Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: Another chapter! I'm going to warn you; this one has graphic violence, strong language, and other possibly offensive things in it. Hope you like it!

Disclaimer: I don't own anything but the plot and OCs

Transformers High

Chapter Two:

The next day was Saturday. No school, no obligations, and definitely no consciousness earlier than nine in the morning. But of course, Solomon had no respect for Nancy's great love of sleep.

The clock read a scarlet sequence of twelve-forty-five A.M. Nancy was cocooned in warmth, wearing two pairs of stylish flannel pajama pants, sports shorts to secure them both around her hips, and three soft sweaters, the smallest of which was four sizes too big for her. It was an impressive fortress of contained heat, and Nancy was fast asleep within its steaming embrace.

When the door slid open, letting in a thin sliver of pale light from the hallway, Nancy remained oblivious. Her snores, the very existence of which she denied when she was conscious, ruffled the fluffy lace trimmings of the pillowcase by her face. Her schoolwork was spread haphazardly over the floor, laid out in what appeared at first glance to be pure chaos. But upon further inspection, there was indeed a system. Related works required for different classes were heaped in a messy, tower-like structure near her desk; things that both literature and history class requested students read for themselves. Her own notes for every subject were scattered in separate piles that ranged from her bed to the door, their crinkled pages making their combined height lopsided and deformed.

Solomon's black brow jumped when he saw the scene, and his lips thinned disapprovingly. Nonetheless, the older boy slid skillfully through the narrow opening between door and frame, each step carefully placed between the messy piles of homework. Slowly, he made his way to Nancy's bedside, a truly devilish grin slipping into place as he loomed above his sister.

Nancy's openmouthed, somewhat dimwitted expression was in full view, a bit of drool trickling down her right cheek. Solomon smirked, withdrawing a sleek phone from his pocket and capturing the image with its camera.

Then, after the evidence had been properly protected and his phone replaced, Solomon attacked.

Nancy had been floating in utter bliss, watching Alice Hawthorne of the Pissyard Cheerleading Team plunge into Pissyard's pool and getting promptly attacked by several alligators. It was a wonderful dream, but it was brutally shattered by the sensation of ice-cold hands shoved down the back of her shirt.

Her high-pitched shriek pierced the stillness of Nancy's room; one of utter shock and great discomfort. Nancy all but leapt free of her cocoon, scrambling away from the freezing fingers that sought to steal her warmth. She flailed wildly, overbalancing and falling to the floor with a muffled _whoomp_ and a crackle of crushed paper. Solomon's snickers rang in her ears, and Nancy threw a blanket viciously off of her head, glaring blearily but with no little venom at her brother.

Who took one look at her expression, and began laughing in earnest. Nancy glowered, seething. Her brain was in a fog, and she felt murderous. Her fiery glare stabbed at the nearby clock. She gaped, eyes bulging.

"Almost _one_ in the _morning_?" She rasped, her voice weak and rough with fatigue. "Are you _insane_?"

Solomon only flopped backwards onto her bed, propping himself up on his elbows and chuckling at her with an amused smirk plastered on his stupid face. Nancy snarled at him, stumbling to her feet and kicking her blankets aside. She rounded on him, feeling static sparking in her hair. She must have looked like an idiot…

Ignoring her hair and rumpled layers of clothing, Nancy planted her hands firmly on her hips, narrowing her gaze and trying to control her flaming temper. "You'd better have a good reason for this, Solomon." She gritted out.

His hilarity died enough for him to manage an answer. "Well, I'd hardly be afraid to say 'no', but it just so happens that I do."

"Oh?" She doubted his definition of a 'good reason' coincided with her own. Nancy's idea of a 'good reason' deserving of her immediate awakening was in the realm of burning houses and murdered family members. Solomon's was more along the lines of-

"Yes; Oliver is hosting a party at his house, and I thought you might like to join me."

That. _That_, right there.

"You woke me up."

"It starts in half an hour, and you haven't even showered."

"You put your dead hands down my shirt, you _vampire_."

"Is it my fault I inherited mother's poor circulation?"

"You probably held them in the _freezer_ for _minutes_ before coming to wake me up."

Solomon grinned unrepentantly. "Maybe." He acknowledged. Nancy seethed.

"Fine." She bit out. "Give me fifteen minutes."

Solomon's expression stiffened, adopting the look he wore whenever he thought Nancy wasn't acting as womanish as she should be. "I'll give you thirty, and I'll ready the curling iron." He offered - well, 'offered' was a bit of a stretch. They both knew he'd force her if necessary.

But Nancy wasn't quite ready to give up. "Doesn't the party start in half an hour? That's what you said earlier."

"We can afford to be fashionably late, as long as it is just that: 'fashionably' so."

Nancy eyed him dubiously, unconvinced. "So basically, if I look nice, we can be late?"

Solomon nodded, looking particularly mulish. "I'll get the curling iron ready." He repeated, his eyes daring her to contradict him. Nancy sighed, and gave in.

"Fine, but I need coffee." She snapped.

"I'll take care of it. Get showered and dressed."

When Nancy threw open the doors to her 'dress' closet (the place where all the finery her mother had purchased was stored), a mouse sprinted form within, darting across the floor with a panicked squeak. She stared after it, wondering when exactly the last time she'd opened this closet had been. Christmas maybe?

Turning to face the insides of the neglected closet, Nancy felt her stomach plummet. There were _so many_. Different colors unfurled in vibrant, glittering cascades of cloth, gleaming in the shadowy interior of their confines. Her mouth dry, Nancy stared fearfully at the sea of dresses. She couldn't even examine them all, much less pick one. She had the sneaking suspicion that Mrs. Hamish had added to their number without Nancy's knowledge, perhaps expecting her adopted daughter to notice and thank her. Guilt ate at Nancy's insides, and she swallowed thickly.

Slowly, reluctantly, she pulled several dresses free from their sisters. Carrying them to the bed was challenging, but Nancy managed to heave their heavy bulk onto her mound of covers, separating them and stepping back to view each.

There was a scarlet napkin-sized dress that wouldn't have sufficed as a bath towel, let alone an full-piece set of clothing. A similarly minuscule garment was spread beside it, staring up at her with a shimmery, pearly complexion. The last two were far longer and more to Nancy's taste: their length was sleek and subtle, and they had sleeves - though these were meagre and sheer at best. They came in plum and cream, both silken, flowing cloth that would probably cling far more than Nancy was really comfortable with, but…she didn't particularly like the idea of scouring the closet for a more pleasant substitute.

Deciding the cream to be the least troublesome and most suited to her preferences, Nancy scooped it up, letting her towel fall to the floor. Completely naked, her damp skin chilled by the cool air around her, Nancy did her best to break whatever record there was for swiftest application of underwear and dress alike to her person.

She had just finished zipping up the side of the dress when a knock sounded on her door. Solomon's voice filtered through.

"Are you decent?" He asked, and she could hear the long-suffering note in his tone. Well, it had been _his_ idea to dress up in the first place. It served him right to wait outside the door - Nancy almost told him she wasn't ready yet, just to make the torture last. But at the last minute she relented, and swished her way to the door, jerking it open. Her brother stepped inside, clad in a wonderfully tailored pair of black slacks and a crisp white shirt.

Barely glancing at her dress, Solomon snagged Nancy's hand, pulling her out of the room and into the hallway. She tried to protest, but he wasn't listening. They screeched down the stairs and Nancy caught a glimpse of the living room as the flew past. There were cigaret butts in the ash tray. Neither her mother nor her father smoked…

"Who came over last night?" Nancy asked as the stumbled into a guest bathroom that branched off of the entrance hall.

"Some rich business manager; I think his name was Mortimer." Solomon replied absentmindedly, closing the door behind them.

Before them, the curling iron steamed like a demon, perched like a white-hot poker on the marble counter. It looked hot and menacing; straight out of hell.

Nancy backpedaled, blathering excuses, but Solomon gave her a look that silenced them all. "You promised." He reminded her sadistically, and Nancy gave him a sour glare.

* * *

Oliver was waiting for them at the door to his residence, clad in his customary black leather jacket and ripped jeans. Behind him, through the open doorway, lights flared and burst; colors danced alongside the shadowed figures beneath them, and music pounded.

Nancy frowned slightly. "How can your parents _sleep_?" She asked suspiciously.

Oliver grinned. "They're out of town." He informed her, and Nancy shifted uncomfortably as his gaze raked up and down her body, only to smirk as he only chirped a quick: "Nice dress, Nancy." And bowed them inside. _That_ was why Oliver was her best friend.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Nancy wobbled past him on ridiculously high heels. Behind her, she heard Solomon's wry complaint.

"What about _my_ clothes, Oliver?"

"They're stupid and stuck up, like you." The dark-skinned boy replied easily.

Their soft laughter - so typical of the two closet intellectuals - followed Nancy into the chaos and heaving mass of teenagers that made up the celebration.

* * *

_Far Away In Detroit..._

The first blow struck against her temple. Red-hot pain bit through her body, seeping from the point of contact. It effectively jarred her brain, making defense an impossible hope. Her fists swung anyway, with as much power as she could muster, but they landed wildly without proper coordination, and she didn't block the next hit. A muted thump sent her chest emptying of air as the heavy strike drove into the place between her breasts; her lips parted in a hoarse cry as the breath ripped past them. Eyes filling with spots and shadows that dodged her every attempt to defend herself, Helen knew she couldn't win. Her next hit landed solidly against a large, muscular chest, slamming against it with a force that took her by surprise and sent pain shooting through her cracking fingers. The flesh beneath her knuckles didn't so much as flinch. Then the man began to beat her in earnest.

Blows struck into her sides and chest; she caught a fist that was aimed toward her nose, only to have the back of her own hand forcefully impacted into her face - her block doing nothing to stop his strike. Her ankle cracked beneath a heavy stomp, and she went limp, falling back against the cold brick wall at her back, screaming. Hands clamped over her lips, and the shoe ground down on her crunching bones. He was utterly silent. His fingers pressed mercilessly into the skin of her cheeks, nails biting into her flesh, and through her swollen eyes she saw his own gaze fixed on her, glinting, cold. One hand came away from her face and took one of her own from where it hung by her side, pressing a sharp object into her palm - a razor blade.

"N-!" She began, but her own fist, closed around the razor by his fingers, had already been raked across the inside of her arm. Hot trickles ran freely, and Helen choked. Dazed, disoriented, dying, she fell through his hands to the alley floor, among dirty wrappers and shattered glass shards. Slowly, she felt the pain fading. Her body was numb. She had fallen over onto her side. The shadow above was watching.

Red drops of life fell from white skin, seeping through the slit in the hollow of her arm. The blood flowed over her fingers, dripping from their ends. Car lights passed by the alley entrance her face was facing; warm yellow glows flashing by; cold…indifferent. Shadows crept close in her vision to her; she heard a ringing in her ears. Something lifted her broken ankle, pulling and dragging her body through the filth. Pavement scraped beneath her, brushing against numb limbs, and she saw thin, glistening red trails left in her wake. A hook in the brick wall caught on her jeans before separating with a rough tearing sound, stinging as it cut into her skin. A pair of headlights far in the distance slowed to a stop in front of the alley entrance….One of her white hands stretched out of its own accord, lines of flowing blood staining the skin…

_Help me._

* * *

Author's Note: New character! Yes, it's a bit confusing, but don't worry - she'll be moved over to the Pissyard crowd soon enough. ^^ Please review and tell me what you think? (Kudos to those who guess who the mysterious "Mortimer" was.)

Until next time!


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Note: Hello, everyone! Got another chapter ready for you, and in less than two weeks, no less! Please read the warning, though; it's a rough one...

_**Warning: This Chapter contains inappropriate language and Mature Content: read at your own risk.**_

Disclaimer: I don't own anything but the plot and OCs.

With that, I hope you enjoy!

* * *

_Somewhere in Detroit..._

The drugs had worn off. That was Helen Ophin's first realization upon waking. Her mind was clear; her thoughts were muddled, but she could _think_. Bright lights glowed in long strips above her, set into a pale, tiled ceiling. A beeping sound at her side drew her attention, and she stiffened when she saw the I.V stabbed into her uninjured arm. The other medical apparatuses that surrounded her were as unfamiliar as the clean, orderly room she was in. Simple blue blankets covered her stomach, thighs, and shins. Her right ankle was fixed in a thick white cast and left open to the air. The air was hot, the blankets were thick, and she was sweltering.

Helen pulled the soft cloth coverings aside, eying her surroundings. Curtain's, as unadorned as the blankets, hid the right half of her bed from outside onlookers, but she wasn't hidden completely from view: set into the wall directly opposite her bed was a large, square window looking into an office. That office was unoccupied at the moment, but Helen still stiffened, wary. It looked very 'lived in', to her, take-out bags and overflowing bookshelves littering the cramped space within, and the idea of someone watching…

A door opened beyond the curtain that shielded her. Helen decided that feigning sleep would be pointless; she would be forced to face her caretakers at some point. Now seemed as good a time as any.

The tread that approached was swift and businesslike. A man stepped around the curtain, moving unerringly to the office door without a glance in her direction. He was tall, dark-skinned, clad in a doctor's white coat, and absurdly muscular, but he moved so quickly that the office door had opened and shut before she knew it, and Helen was left staring at a closed door. The doctor moved just as rapidly _in_ the confines of his office as _out_ of it, chugging like a train up on ladder, snatching a file of the bookshelf, and sliding down with little grace and much speed. He moved out of the window's line of sight, and Helen jerked involuntarily as the door shot open again, miraculously _not_ slamming against the wall. The man glanced up at her as he began to chug past, almost making it to the exit. The screech of his shoes on the floor as he skidded to a stop was comical, but Helen didn't laugh.

The man's sharp black eyes took in her rumpled and battered form, flicking to the blankets she'd tossed on the floor and eyeing them with a displeased glare.

"Hmph." He grunted, tossing the file on a visitor's chair nearby and approaching. Helen stiffened, her breath catching in her throat - a throat, she realized after doing so, that was still quite sore. "Any pain?" Was the doctor's first question. He had a pleasant voice; deep and accented; like dark chocolate.

Helen shook her head, and winced when her neck throbbed. The doctor snorted, pulling up a stool and seating himself upon it.

"If you lie," He began coolly, "You're treatment will only take longer. How much do you like Jello?" Another more vehement shake was her answer. "Well, you have several tubs of it in your future if you don't tell me what's what."

She swallowed. "How did I get here?" She asked, only just realizing just how much the question had been bothering her. The frantic entry of the strange doctor had pushed it from her mind.

_-Red drops of life falling from white skin, seeping through a slit in the hollow of her arm. Rivulets flowing over cold fingers, dripping from ragged nails. Car lights passing by the alley entrance, warm yellow glows flashing by, so distant they seemed cold…indifferent.-_

"You're grandfather brought you in."

That wasn't the answer she had expected.

"W-What?" She rasped, confused, one eyebrow quirking upward. The doctor smirked slightly. It was barely a twitch.

"I thought as much. I have a picture of the gentlemen if you wish to see it. He said it might give you comfort." He paused, hesitant. "_Would you_ like to see it?" He asked skeptically.

She nodded.

The man in the photo was tall, lean, and weathered. His skin was rough and browned by long days in the sun; lines ran down his face, fitting perfectly with the frown he wore. A shock of white hair perched atop his head; a thin, ragged heap of it. He had pale eyes and a pale suit, but she could discern the exact color of neither.

The doctor studied her expression, which she kept carefully blank. "Do you recognize him?"

"No." Her voice barely quavered. She suspected he noticed, but he made no comment. "How long do I have to stay?" She asked, handing him back the photo.

"Well, ideally a week. Of course, I'd have to know if you were _experiencing any pain_ to get you out sooner." He said meaningfully.

"I am." She acknowledged immediately.

"That's good. We thought you might have damage in your brain." The doctor rose with a grunt. "If you have proper nerve reception, then that thankfully isn't the case. You can leave in a few days." His dark eyes locked onto hers. "Will anyone be coming to collect you?"

"No."

"Alright then."

* * *

The air was crisp, like a cold potato chip. Helen snorted at the comparison, feet trudging slowly over the icy sidewalk, hands shoved into her jean pockets for warmth. The finger of her left hand played with the doctor's information card; he had given it her before she left the hospital, pressing into her grasp and firmly clenching her fist around it with his own brown fingers. His eyes had looked intently into hers - he had always been so serious, she thought. Not much like the doctors she had known in the past. His voice had been rough, as though he was swallowing the decision she had made with more than a little difficulty.

"Call if you need anything."

"I won-" She had begun to assure him.

"Just…call." He had interrupted, never once breaking eye contact. Then he had let her go.

Helen sighed, feeling more than a little depressed. One of the only human beings that had shown interest in her well-being (granted it had seemed more like an invasion of privacy at the time) and she was walking away from him in battered converse and ripped, bloodstained clothing. The hospital hadn't been able to contact anyone to bring her clothes - no surprise there - so they had been forced to return her mottled attire, which they had tried their best to destroy using bleach, laundry soap, and other cleaning supplies. It hadn't gotten rid of the stains, but it had added a few more, and she now looked like someone who bought urban cammo jeans and smeared them with brown paint.

Cars flashed by on the road to her right; horns blared and men, women, and adolescents cursed at one another. She came to an intersection and waited for the light, surrounded by shoppers, work-goers, and a few teenagers who had obviously skipped school. The shoppers chatted, the work-goers eyed the light gloomily, and the teenagers snickered and discussed "important things" they were old enough to consider, like sex. Helen rolled her eyes. They couldn't talk about world hunger or the rise in criminal activity that the city had been experiencing; that would be _responsible_.

The light turned. Helen moved forward with the rest, grimacing as a young man jostled her injured leg. The individual turned, no doubt intending to tell her off for walking into him-

"Sorry,"

-the pretty-boy _bastard_ \- wait. What?

"I said 'sorry'." The boy repeated. She must have spoken out loud. Helen stared.

"O-okay." She replied.

The teenager smiled nervously, eyes averted, and turned back to his friends. She watched him move ahead, dark hair bouncing around his ears, a black leather jacket creaking on his back. His group laughed suddenly, raucous male voices ringing in the air. Helen shook her head, turning away with a frown. She didn't like it when people proved her wrong, but he _had_ been unexpectedly nice.

She snorted, wondering when, in her twisted little life, someone apologizing for an injury _they_ _inflicted_ had become "nice". It should have been "normal".

She arrived home a little after sunset. The apartment doorway was dark; the entryway lightbulb had obviously burned out.

Helen lived on the fourth floor of Paradise Hills, an apartment complex that in which more lice, mice, and cockroaches found their homes than human beings did. The owner, Mr. Jenatro, had died in a car accident, leaving the establishment to his son, Frank Jenatro. Frank was a well-intentioned man, but he was not suited to the financial duties and upkeep a place like Paradise Hills demanded. He paid outrageous rent to a local gang, taking the money from the fund intended for the hygiene and structural repair of the apartments, and the rooms suffered for it. Helen's door had been long bare of paint; the numeral two in the two hundred and fifty-one designation on her placard was broken in half, the bottom part dangling and rattling against the door every time it was opened or shut.

Helen didn't live alone. The sound of a television came from beyond the door, and she heard moans above the static-laced audio. Grimacing, the girl quietly turned her key in the door lock, opening the door and slipping inside with as little noise as possible. The entryway was a minuscule hallway with a rotten floor. Coats hung on cheap plastic rungs on either wall, and she had to shove her way past them to get inside. The smell of smoke, burned cheese, and alcohol roiled in the air, stinging her nostrils and eyes. The lights were off, but the television sent flickering flashes over the two forms writhing on the living room couch not five feet from her. Helen spun away before she could see more. She coughed, covering her mouth and hurrying through the dark living room and kitchen combo, trying to reach her door before-

"Bitch!" Her mother shrieked from behind her. There was a masculine groan of disappointment and disbelief as Mrs. Ophin clambered without hesitation off of her lover, couch cushions groaning and squeaking beneath her movements. Helen stood stock still, staring steadfastly at her own bedroom door, determined not to look. "Where were you?" Mrs. Ophin snapped, her rich, throaty purr sharpened with irritation.

Helen didn't answer. Her mother didn't really want to know where she had been; she wanted to know why Helen hadn't shown up for their nightly jaunt.

"Jade, just leave it for now." Came a man's voice from somewhere further behind Helen in the living room, and her insides twisted with fury. She didn't know the voice, as usual, but she wanted to rip something sensitive off of him. Not one man who came to her mother's apartment deserved to be called a man; no man who treated a woman as they treated her mother deserved their claim to masculinity. Granted, her mother literally begged for it, but their actions were their own, and she hated them for it. The perverse sack of meat behind her gave a half-hearted growl that was obviously meant to be alluring. "Come back to bed, sweetheart. We haven't finished."

_You mean come back to the couch you're fucking her on? __**Her**__ couch, since you're too cheap to pay for the cleaning bill at your own place._ Helen thought viciously. Her hands clenched, shaking at her sides.

"No, I'm gonna settle _this_ first." Jade Ophin sneered, and Helen felt thin fingers snag her jacket, whirling her around. Her mother's naked form was nothing new, but Helen still turned her gaze aside, blushing. She didn't _want_ to see her mother like this, despite the many assurances Jade gave that it was completely normal and natural. It just didn't seem…right. "Here's the deal, kid." Never Helen. Always "kid", "honey", "bitch", or others. "I spent a good two hours looking for you last night. That's worth something, right? So I deserve to know what was so important you had me waste my time. Were you having sex?"

"No." Firm answer, hiding her disgust. From what she had seen of sex, she didn't know why anyone would want to have it.

"Were you doing drugs?"

Similarly, no.

"Were you doing something you shouldn't?"

Implying the first two things were perfectly acceptable, despite the fact she was still seventeen. "No."

"Damn it, girl! What were you doing?"

"Dancing."

There was silence. Then the man in the shadowy living room burst out laughing, levering himself up, staggering drunkenly. He too was naked; pale with red hair. Helen glared at him, not at all bothered by _his_ bare skin. He didn't deserve her respect.

"You mean the bitch can dance?" The man slurred, slumping against the wall and snickering. "Seems a little skinny for that, don't you think?"

"You don't need talent or good looks to dance, Martin." Helen's mother murmured, blushing. She too was skinny, but she had the curves Helen lacked, making her attractive where her child was not. Still, she tended to react protectively when another insulted Helen. Something to do with their nearly identical appearance, Helen suspected. If you insulted one, you must be insulting the other. Her mother's green eyes snapped back to Helen. "Where'd you get the cuts?"

Helen had honestly believed her mother wouldn't notice them. It was a little sad that it took nearly fatal wounds to catch Jade Ophin's attention, but Helen couldn't help but feel a swell of warmth inside at the thought that she had noticed. She had to take what she could get, after all.

Trying to hide a smile, she presented her arms. Her mother cursed.

"Shit, girl! What did you do?" She didn't touch them or fondle them as a real mother might do, but she did curl her lip in displeasure, fingers twitching before planting firmly on pale hips.

"I…" Helen paused. She didn't think her mother would believe her story. A lie would have to suffice. "I fell off the stage and onto the bar. They had a lot of glasses out."

"Shit…" Martin muttered drowsily, still leaning against the wall.

Jade glanced at him, seemingly having forgotten he was there. Her gaze softened at the sight of him, and she waved a hand at Helen. "Go get some sleep, kid. I'll wake you up before I hit the road."

Helen grimaced as her mother slinked over to Martin, hands grazing pale flesh, long, blood-red curls swishing over her white shoulders as she twisted her body against his. The man twitched, instantly alert, a sick smirk slipping over his chapped mouth as he rose, pulling her into the darkness of the living room.

Helen didn't care to stay. She pulled her door open with a jerk, eyes stinging, and retreated into her room.

her bed was rumpled, as it had been when she left five days ago. Five days, and her mother spent _two hours _last night looking for her? Helen ripped the clothes from her body, jerked on a loose T-shirt, and collapsed amid the pile of blankets and laundry on her mattress. Her ankle stung, her cuts ached, and her eyes felt swollen with tears. Her hand reached out blindly to her dresser, fumbling over cosmetics, brushes, and underwear before she found what she was looking for. The clink of metal on metal was soothing to her ears. The cold chain of the necklace pressed sharply against her breasts as she clasped it close, sobbing. It was just a little thing; the only thing her mother had given her that had been specifically _for her_. The strange shard pressed into her skin, hard stone rubbing against tear-slicked flesh. It was real crystal of some kind, sparkly and cold; not plastic. It had been so exciting to open it. Her other presents, when she got them, were usually pragmatic; cosmetics for appearances, clothes for presentation, shoes for walking; nothing so childish and toy-like as the stone necklace.

Some people had teddy bears. Helen had her necklace.

And pressed between her palms, glistening with her tears, the necklace _glowed_.

* * *

_On the other side of town…_

The light turned green, but he didn't press on the gas. Behind him, horns honked and loud voices sneered harsh words. Barricade couldn't have cared less. There was a singing in his chest; a strange, worrisome fluttering…

Even worse, he had felt it before.

Soft words slipped from pale lips, and dark eyes narrowed into shadowy slits. "The Allspark…"

* * *

Author's Note: Well, there we are. That one was really hard to write; I was nearly in tears by the end of it. Please review!


	5. Chapter 5

_AN: Hello, everyone! I'm sorry it's taken so long for me to get back into the Fanfiction field; life has been busy and exciting, and I simply haven't had the time to keep up with everything. I'll be continuing as quickly and often as I can now though, so enjoy the story and message me if you have any questions!_

_-WeepingWillow555_

* * *

**Chapter Five:**

The Mysterious Stranger

It wasn't that Nancy hated noise. She liked most kinds of music, and the dulcet burbles of a coffee machine was pure, distilled goodness to her ears. No, Nancy was not an enemy of noise in general, nor was she a supporter of silence. But Oliver's choice in music - while popular and not without style - was something she definitely could have done without.

Drums beat like cannons, firing into a vibrantly colored, flashing, bobbing sea of dancers. Bodies jostled against her, sweat slicking from a passing arm onto her own, their warmth eating through her dress and itching against her skin.

There was no space to breathe, let alone dance, but Oliver's massive pack of teenage visitors managed to ignore that impossibility. They gyrated and wriggled in place; silky hair tossing, hips bucking to the beat of electronic chaos.

As she had anticipated, the party was not worth such an early wake-up call. Nancy's only consolation was that Solomon had quickly transitioned from his out of place cheer into his more natural state: stoic silence.

Initially her brother always enjoyed the thrill of an early excursion with Oliver, but it was inevitable that he lose interest - especially once he ascertained the other guests' numbers and general state of mindlessness.

Nancy was a bit surprised Oliver had thrown such a party to begin with, actually. He tended more towards a mixture of punk and dapper; a goth poker table full of hand-picked individuals he had deemed fit to participate, complete with champagne glasses and a few suit pieces. To entertain a pop mob at his home was very unlike her friend.

She didn't have long to think it over, and she was slightly too tired to care. Their host himself had slithered over, taking stock of their seclusion and expressions with a crooked grin.

"You both look like though a cat pissed in your drinks or you ate a lemon raw. Did you just come to show off Nancy's dress or were you planning to actually have fun at some point?" Oliver joined them, half lidded eyes glittering with too much good humor.

It was obvious to Nancy that her sharp friend had been drinking. She didn't mind; Oliver knew how to take care of himself. But she still frowned and dropped her gaze to the ground rather than take in his uncharacteristically slouching form, a strange feeling settling in her stomach - one she couldn't identify, but disliked instinctively.

Oliver's sweaty shirt, empty and clammy, suddenly flopped like a dead thing over Nancy's shoulders. She stiffened and turned her glare at it, nose wrinkling.

Oliver seemed unbothered, black chest now bare as he slid next to Solomon, slinging dark, muscular arms around her brother's pale neck. He then comically pulled the taller boy closely against him, even as Nancy stared.

Both of them fluidly assumed a slightly wobbly waltzing position, Solomon rolling his eyes - obviously exasperated by Oliver's tipsiness. Her brother had no patience with drunks, no matter what degree of plastered they achieved.

Her brother let out a sigh as he led the shorter boy through a few wobbly steps. "We are enjoying ourselves, Bat. Can't you tell?" Bat, referring to Oliver's nocturnal tendencies and dark coloring. Nancy was surprised he still put up with the nickname.

She shook her head at the awkward waltzing duo, shifting on her wobbly heels and feeling even more uncomfortable. It wasn't that she minded how easily Solomon and Oliver impersonated gays, or how amusing they found doing so. The two boys were strange, but she understood their wry humor and their liking of doing the unexpected. She just didn't like the weight of other eyes as smirking, tittering teenagers took in the scene, already mocking and gossiping. It was irritating, and someday it would probably lead to a massive high-school drama that she wanted no part of.

"Will you two stop it?" She muttered, pulling Oliver's stupid, abandoned shirt closer around her shoulders, using it as a shield to block the prickly stares all around them. Her words were barely heard above the din, and Oliver craned his neck to see her, eyes narrowing, the lips beneath slitting in a truly devilish grin.

Uh-oh...

"Oh-! Please do pardon us, Nance." Oliver crowed, his smooth voice thick with sickeningly fake mortification. He released Solomon with a jerk as though caught in some terrible act, swaying unsteadily on his feet. But his black eyes glittered dangerously with humor, and a smirk tugged at the corner of his thin mouth. "I didn't know you wanted our attention that badly..."

Nancy wordlessly leveled a glare at him, backing up, but an overly enthusiastic dancer knocked her closer to the dangerous would-be DJ.

Before she could regain her balance or back away, Oliver's hand had snatched her wrist, dark fingers mercilessly tight, and pulled.

Normally, she wasn't a very vocal person. But it was nearly three in the morning now. She was tired and fuzzy, unbalanced by her heels and the restraints of her too-tight tube of a dress.

With a startled squall, Nancy overbalanced, and crashed into her friend's bare, sweaty chest. His flesh was hot and slimy - like a boiled slug's skin beneath her hands. She shrieked and tried to lean away, shocked and disgusted at the smell - the heated proximity -

She heard Oliver's howls of laughter nearby above the pounding music.

Something hot pounded suddenly in her chest - something tight and angry.

"You son of a-!" She began to snarl and, balance partially regained, tried to shove herself free, but Oliver wasn't finished. With a deep chuckle that might have fit better in an old horror film, her friend slung her away again, whirling her in a circle. She couldn't break away without falling gracelessly and painfully to the floor, so Nancy was helpless to do anything but gasp and clutch at his clammy fingers.

For a moment, there was only brightly colored lights flashing all around - empty, hot air meeting her clawing hands - Oliver's laughter cutting off with a surprised yelp-

Nancy caught a glimpse of her brother through the messy spin of twisting lights and bodies, dark eyes narrowed into thin, glittering slits - lips baring white teeth in a terribly strange snarl.

Oliver's grip on her wrist was suddenly gone, ripped away. She staggered - tripped instantly - smashed into her friend, fingers digging and scrabbling for purchase as they both came down hard onto cold, tiled floor.

The world jolted, and her head spun.

It was a stunned, painful moment before Nancy was able to blink her way back to reality. It took a second to realize, with an icy rush of horror, that the back of her head was pressed against strong muscles - that a hand was pinned beneath her butt and the ground.

Nancy froze, eyes popping wide. Her cheeks burned, reddening into a powerful blush - paling to horrified white half a second later.

Beneath her back, someone groaned in a deep, masculine tone. Jade Donnalt's booming laugh sounded from somewhere overhead. Nancy hadn't even known the other girl was here. There were other chortles too- drunk giggles and snorts. The music was vibrating through the floor into her and Oliver's tangled bodies - there was hot air on her upper thigh -

Jade's laughter hitched at the same moment that Nancy realized the worst. She suspected everyone watching had only just noticed as well.

There was sudden disbelieving silence in a five-foot proximity - like the hush after a poodle trips to splat, arrogant face first, into a mud puddle.

Nancy's eyes began to burn, and she scrambled away from the warm body beneath her without a word, clutching at her dress. It had torn along a seam, up to her waist. Her pale leg and thigh gleamed in the flashing lights, bared to all eyes. Her underwear, pale and slightly frayed, outlined the seam where thigh met waist.

Nancy stared at it, unseeing, gulping as the world blurred with tears.

Then she ran, clutching the fabric as tightly as possible with shaking hands - ignoring Oliver's uncharacteristic stutters and a sudden, sharp "Nancy-" from Solomon.

She shoved past other party goers, almost knocking one boy to the floor. Guilt ate into her, but shame was stronger, and she scrambled to get the front door open without so much as a glance behind, much less an apology. A few voices barked out at her, but she didn't turn round. The knob turned in her sweaty hands - hot tears dripped onto her fingers - it opened with a gasp of cool air, and Nancy ran out into the night.

* * *

It had begun to rain. Cold drops stung against pavement, pattering wetly against the grass, glittering in the dim park lights.

Lappington Park was a strangely conflicted place. It held two reputations; one for day, and one for night.

During sunny hours and on until burning sunsets, the park was peaceful, playful, and decorated with perfect families. Children swung on plastic swings, laughingly jumping loose and racing to the city pool nearby. Toddlers played in the sand-boxes, watched over by their parents. Dogs barked, bugs buzzed, and birds sang.

At night, the park was almost always visited by the most unsavory residents of Pissyard High, and devils walked abroad. Mostly in goth clothes, determined to smoke forbidden cigarettes and have sex with each other.

With the coming of rain, however, the park was empty. Goths took to the hills and sought out their basement fortresses, animals burrowed or huddled in bushes, and the cold ruled supreme.

This made it the perfect place for Nancy to retreat.

The park bench was cool and wet beneath her. Little pools of water, gathered in dips in the old wood, wet her cheek and seeped into her clothes. She had lost Oliver's shirt as she ran. and the night kissed her skin coldly where she lay, but Nancy didn't feel like sitting straight or moving to somewhere more sheltered. As foolish as she knew it was, Nancy Hamish wanted nothing more than to lie on her side in the rain. It was peaceful (especially if she shoved aside the nagging thought that she would regret it later when she caught pneumonia).

It hadn't been so bad a thing, once she thought about it. Many girls wore dresses that were slit and ribbed along the whole length of their sides, down their legs and up around their breasts. It wasn't so terrible that her skirt had ripped, or that she'd fallen into an embarrassingly provocative position with her best friend, or that a mob of fellow adolescents had seen it all...

Nancy bit her lip, eyes stinging, and turned her face into the wood beneath her, chest tight with unreleased sobs. She didn't like crying. She didn't like how seeing Oliver drunk made her insides writhe uncomfortably. She hated the betrayal she felt, especially given that it hadn't really been so bad a thing... not really. Just embarrassing. She could deal with embarrassment; she'd done it before. She just needed to calm down. It was just late, and she was exhausted enough to react badly to anything.

Nancy snuffled against the wood, closing her eyes to the rain and the darkness around her. The wood smelled like pine, old and soothing. The darkness behind her lids was deep, and the rain no longer felt cold.

"Miss Hamish?"

Deep voice, like chocolate. The tone was polite, slightly concerned.

She opened her eyes, turning her head disbelievingly to see Mr. Pax standing only five feet away. His expression was slightly too serious to be curious; he looked mildly worried, soft eyes questioning.

He was slightly hunched, as though still making up his mind about whether it would be appropriate or not to crouch at her level. The man's dress shirt and jeans were sopping; his hair clung to his pale neck and forehead, dripping trails of glittering water down white cheeks and a strong chin.

God. He looked better wet than he had dry...

"Pax." A second voice shattered the awkward silence, and Nancy jumped. Not only because she hadn't realized anyone else was there; the voice had a particularly sharp quality to it that made her body leap in automatic shock and mild panic. It was a gravelly rumble that rippled like the grumble of a crocodile through the falling rain. It was sleek too, if ever a voice could be sleek; catlike and rasping, despite being deeply pitched...

The owner had been standing a few feet behind Mr. Pax the whole time, and yet she hadn't noticed him.

How she could have missed him, she didn't know.

Her first impression was of inhuman height, but when later questioned, Nancy would not be able to swear that he was particularly far above six feet. The presence he carried with him gave the stranger his few extra inches.

Where Mr. Pax was perfect for viewing, this man seemed to forbid it. Nancy felt as though her staring was an insult itself; as though daring to meet his gaze would be a grave mistake. So instead she took in the perfectly tailored pale suit that clung to impressive muscles like a thick second skin; saw the dark vest and blood-red tie, a glittering tie-pin peeking like a star from its center folds.

He looked rich. He stood as though he had no care for the impression he gave.

He was terrifying.

"Do not worry, Miss Hamish." Mr. Pax must have noticed her gaping, wide-eyed silence. "This is a... friend of mine." Pax's voice faltered slightly, as though momentarily thoughtful or amused. "His name is Talon- Marcus Talon."

"Marcus Talon" smiled a thin, humorless smile that was nonetheless more charming than it had any right to be. "What a delight it is to meet you, Miss Hamish."

* * *

_AN: There we are! A little short, but hopefully quality won over quantity. :) Until next time!_


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